Heartbeat
by Sidney Hummel
Summary: Just after professing their love for each other, Sherlock takes the fall. John doesn't know that Sherlock and Jim are now living together in a different city. COMPLETED
1. Chapter 1

"John, what's wrong?"

"Mm, nothing. What makes you think—"

"The way you've been carrying yourself the past few days, it's stiff, like you're trying to stand firm against pressure. Your leg, traces of the limp returning. Psycho-somatic limp returning tells me that it's something going on in your mind, manifesting itself as such. Your brow, furrowed, as if constantly deep in thought. A few times within the past two days I've seen your mouth open and close as if you were to say something, but you've remained quite silent, despite the fact that we've been together night and day and you've had every opportunity to disclose to me what it is exactly that's bothering you."

John sighs, shrugs. Stares blankly at the laptop screen.

Sherlock strides across the room and shuts the computer. "What. Is it?"

John feels pinned. He looks up into those pale eyes and feels butterflies. Against the will of his mind he hears words trickle out. "I don't know what this will do, telling you… My body has betrayed me in so many ways at this point and I've got to be honest. Sherlock, whenever you are around, I can't speak."

"Well, you're speaking now, aren't you? What's this got to do with anything?"

Sherlock almost turns to go but John says, "No. It's… I like you."

"I like you, too."

"Shut up, would you? This is hard for me to get out, so wait til I've finished."

Sherlock's face pinches a bit, to focus. John is serious.

"I have feelings for you the way that I should have feelings for women. You are… stunning, and I want to be intimate with you. Maybe in some ways we already are intimate. I know that you and I understand each other in ways no one else can, and I think, because of that, we both need each other. But, I need you in other ways. I need you in all ways, always."

The pale eyes have not strayed, and of course John can't read his expression. Not for certain. A dreadfully silent minute passes before Sherlock responds.

"Alright."

"Alright, what?"

"We can try this."

"What?"

Sherlock moves now, the silk robe fluttering about his knees. He briefly looks out the window, then turns back to John. "I have no experience with romance or the types of emotions that inevitably follow." He pauses, chuckles. "Sentiment, I suppose, is one aspect of being involved with another person that I just… Well, this is how it is. I've known for a while that I feel something for you that differs from what I've felt for anyone else I've ever met. I assumed I felt what a friend feels for another friend, but then there was something else. Is something else…"

"And what's that?"

"I feel vulnerable around you, a sort of yearning to be protected by you." He scoffs. "This sounds absurd even coming out of my mouth."

"Well it makes sense to me. Vulnerable… I get that."

John stands up and walks to where Sherlock stands. There is a look of surprise on his face, it's fresh and John laughs. Sherlock cocks his head slightly as if to say, Why are you laughing? He feels the warmth of John's hand touching his face and then their mouths, softly together.

This is just the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

John is in heaven, in a way. He finds himself there, Sherlock curled up in his bed still asleep. Sunlight pries at the corners of the drapes and he doesn't want it to be morning. Not yet. But he must get up and go about his business. He makes coffee for himself, some toast. He works days at the hospital, remains friends with Sarah, enjoys what he does. While he is gone Sherlock works on any variety of things; the main point is that Sherlock is always working. Married to his work, he says.

Before leaving, John peeks in and steals a moment to appreciate Sherlock's body and mind at rest. How often does one get to see that? Next to never. He is always spinning away.

Sometime during the morning he receives a text.

_I'm ready. Now -SH_

John tries to think of all the different things that could mean. Of course, he doesn't think of the most obvious thing.

_Ready for what?_

His heart begins to patter while he waits.

_ For you –SH_

Obvious, John. It's been several weeks of slow moving bliss. John doesn't mind, he wants to be respectful. He's begun to feel like he'd do anything, _anything_ for Sherlock. As a lover and a friend. But he has wondered, when? What if Sherlock isn't really serious about being attractive to him, about trying things out? Unlike Sherlock, John has had enough experience to know what he likes when and how, with both women and men. He has been waiting to please, waiting to be pleased. And here is the opportunity.

_Will come on break._

Realizing how this sounds once it's sent, he chuckles. Sits back at his desk and glances at his book for the next appointment. The phone buzzes again.

_Yes, you will –SH_

He didn't expect Sherlock to get the joke.

When John steps into the apartment, he feels the change. It's lingering in all the places. Something is new, fresh. The chill of the outside air wears off quickly and in spite of all efforts to remind himself he is on a time limit, he loses it. He locks the door behind him.

It's sort of funny, John thinks. Sherlock must have tried to find information about how to create a romantic mood. There is some sort of music playing, music he knows Sherlock would never actively seek out. It smells almost as if, ah yes. There is a candle lit and sitting atop the dresser. As he steps into the doorway of his bedroom he slips his coat off and lets it drop on the floor. He never could have imagined this.

Sherlock is laying back against the pillows, clad just in his silk robe. His porcelain skin exposed in some places. A bit of thigh, a nipple, an eloquent wrist. He is holding a large feather in one hand and pulling it between the fingers of the other. He blinks slowly and meets John's eyes.

In one smooth movement Sherlock is off the bed and attempting to undo John's belt buckle.

"Sherlock-"

"No, John."

"Sherlock, I-"

"Shut up and let me do this."

"Not if you talk to me that way."

John feels the heat underneath his clothes and doesn't care about self control. In a moment he slips out of his pants and briefs. He grabs Sherlock at the wrists, harder than he means to. Sherlock looks him down and up and is clearly surprised. John understands what he meant by vulnerable. This is it. His mouth meets his partner's in a panic and John pushes his whole body into Sherlock's. There is no choice but for them to move towards the bed. John quickly gains the top and tosses away the robe. He explores this new territory with his mouth and tongue, with both hands, this naked length of milky skin and tense muscle. When he sees that Sherlock is just as ready as he is, he goes down. There are noises leaving Sherlock's mouth John never knew were possible. Noises of pain. The pain of that climb to climax, which comes soon enough. John swallows every succulent drop of Sherlock, licks his lips and kisses his way up the shaking body until he meets the lips again.

The breaths are heavy, there is sweat and skin sticks. John lifts and turns Sherlock over, shifts him into the position he wants to try. He steps off the bed and pulls this marble sculpture towards him, gripping the legs at his sides. He lubricates himself after licking his hand and then goes in, deep. Revels in the feel of the muscles tightening around him. Yanks the body closer, moves in deeper, pushes again and again and savors the noises, the heaving breaths, the moment of his own climax when he sees shadows for just a moment and then slowly pulls out.

Lying there with Sherlock in his arms he feels a sense of satisfaction, a self-importance that he hasn't felt before. It's always he who relies on Sherlock, for entertainment, for information, for a chase. Sure, there have been a few times he's had to step in and save the idiot's life, but it's nothing compared to all that Sherlock has done for him. It feels wonderful to finally be in a situation where Sherlock is relying on him. John will take care of him, teach him about intimacy. He fingers the dark curls, strokes his ribs and hipbones. He rolls the word _lover_ around in his head, tries it on for size. He thinks, have I ever been in love before? If never before, could this be it?

He doesn't feel afraid.

Sherlock's popularity is on the rise. Cases are coming and going like pollen in the wind, spreading his name and reputation. There are monetary donations and material gifts. Lestrade is ever grateful and often invites the pair out for drinks and celebrance. Sherlock doesn't understand the idea behind celebrating _solving _a case. He thrives on the actual _problem_. Once solved, everything falls back to that self same shade of dull. Before the cameras and crowds, Sherlock comes off callous and irritable. At Baker Street, he struts about like a proud and glamorous heroine, in his favorite fashion—naked. John can see that he enjoys the attention to some degree. He is aware the spread of his name brings greater opportunity for a chase.

Having John to share it all with makes it real. It's only been about two months, if that, since they admitted themselves. The novelty has not worn off yet, especially not for Sherlock. He never had any expectations to begin with, nothing to compare the relationship to. With nothing to go by, how could he possibly be disappointed? John is wonderful to him, more than he could have asked for. But sometimes he wonders just how far he will allow himself to go. It is well known that Sherlock is not the type of person to let his walls down, let alone openly love.

This popularity business greatly concerns John, who understands that the more allies one has, the greater the chance they will encounter an enemy. With this growing recognition and praise, he fears it's only a matter of time. Matter of time until what? He's not sure. On occasion he considers consulting Mycroft, who could offer a different type of security. Mostly John pushes away the feeling, assuring himself the fears are not indicative of impending doom. He has always been prone to paranoia, especially post-war. In a similar manner he takes his job as protector, as lover, very seriously. He tells himself, Sherlock and I are right for each other. This is love. This _is _love. Nothing will change this. Not popularity, not my job, not his work. Even Mycroft—who no doubt already guessed the nature of our relationship—will not destroy what we have.

He thinks, All my life I've prayed for someone to change me the way he has. He is my answer. Nothing will change him.

Late in the spring a name reappears.

A name that brings a light to Sherlock's long face.

A name that causes John's insides to go tight.

The name is Jim Moriarty.


	3. Chapter 3

They are at dinner. There is a look on his pale face that John doesn't recognize and it hurts him. He thinks Sherlock looks frightened, just for a moment.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

He seems so thin lately, as if every case he solves takes a physical piece of him away at its close. There have been so many cases, so many sleepless nights that have kept John up as well. Of course, John doesn't mind.

It takes Sherlock a moment to look up. "I know you are worried beyond rationality about me."

John laughs nervously. "What, is it that obvious?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curls and then releases. "Terribly obvious."

"I care about you, I can't help that."

"Hm. That's arguable. Surely there's some way for you to calm yourself. Frankly, it would benefit both of us if you could find such a mechanism and put it to use now."

John feels his brow fall. A familiar burning sensation fills the pit of his stomach. He is instantly reminded of the time Sherlock told him that he has no friends. He takes a deep breath. "You know—Sometimes I don't understand the things you say to me, or why you say them. Sometimes I forget how _completely inept_ you are at handling the human heart."

"How, exactly, do you mean?"

"Nearly everything you say is devoid of compassion. Most of the time I find it amusing, but right now it's terrifying! You're my best friend, Sherlock, you're," he lowers his voice, "you're _my life_. And unlike you, I can't just wish away this unsettling feeling, find a way to soothe myself to back to rationality, where you'd be so content to have me. I committed myself a long time ago to protecting you, to staying by your side. You're well aware of that. I just… I know you. I know you better than anyone possibly could. I'd be fooling myself to ever think you'll tell me that you love me," his eyebrows raise and he cocks his head slightly, "but I know you do."

Sherlock says nothing.

"So please, show me that. Just—just for right now. Whatever it is you are trying to say to me, retrace your steps and say it through that love."

Sherlock looks to John and looks away. He wishes that John didn't hit these bouts of insecurity. He wishes that John didn't need reassurance, didn't need him so bad. He can't say, I know you are stronger than this. He can't say, I want to you detach yourself now because if something happens to me, I won't be able to deal with the mess left behind. He can't explain the game and how it is drawing to close. And he certainly can't tell John what words were spoken between he and Moriarty in the flat that afternoon he walked free.

"There is always a possibility things will go terribly wrong, in any situation, under any circumstances. That being said," he pulls in breath, "I just don't like to see you worry needlessly. It will help me retain focus if I know your mind is sound."

John sighs. Reaches out for Sherlock's hand. A few moments of silence pass this way and Sherlock responds to his touch.

"I do care about you, John. As much as I care about my work, in fact. That's what makes this all so difficult."

"We've survived a lot so far. We can survive this, too."

Sherlock smiles softly, strokes the back of John's palm with his thumb.

The waiter sets down their plates.

They are running hand in hand down an alley, handcuffed, after dark. Sherlock is a fugitive, suddenly, forced from his own flat. And of course John has gone along with him, will do anything he asks if he believes it will help. He has no idea how things have gotten this far. How could he have known? Better yet, how could he have prevented it? Doesn't matter, he kicks himself anyway. For all the what ifs. You should have known, John, you should have been more prepared. His life is in danger now, you could have… But he did. He did have a feeling, and he did say something. That's about as prepared as he could have been.

Some things just can't be helped. Moriarty is one of those things.

John arrives at the hospital, unaware of the time. He has just finished speaking with Mycroft, and feels sick with knowledge. He finds Sherlock in the laboratory upstairs, tossing a rubber ball against a cabinet. He says nothing of what he just learned, but it is difficult to keep to himself.

The way Sherlock talks, there may be hope yet. There may be a way to turn things around, erase Richard Brook. Clear the detective's name. John grasps at any potential solution, trusting Sherlock with both of their lives. He stands at the ready, waiting instructions. Sherlock sets him at a table with a kiss and a menial task and soon enough he is asleep.

When he wakes, his phone is ringing beneath him.

Sherlock refuses to make eye contact with him.

_Oh, God._

"I used to dream every night, now I never dream at all. I used to wake up next to him, to his warmth and his scent. Now I wake in a hell I couldn't have ever imagined."

He is visiting his therapist again. It's been eighteen months, and she reminds him of that. John wants this to be their last appointment, but chances are he'll break down and see her again.

She asks him about his experience, about losing his best friend. He doesn't say much because he knows he will start to cry. He isn't ready to cry, and he thinks, Maybe I never will be.

"You know you can still talk to him, even if he's not physically available to listen."

"No. No, I don't believe in that magic."

"Then what do you believe?"

"I believe that… when we die, we disappear."

"Nothing remains?"

He shakes his head. "It's passed. Even if something remained, it would be different. Twisted."

"This is a trauma, John. A very fresh wound. It will heal and the pain will pass, just like everything always has. Things will change."

He winces. "Change?"

There is silence for a minute.

He adds, "I don't want change."

"That's what you are facing now."

"Don't."


	4. Chapter 4

John shows up on Harry's doorstep carrying a brown bag. He has no recollection of getting there, but is ushered in nonetheless. They do not hug, it's just not something they ever familiarized themselves with.

"Where's Clara off to?" He goes into the kitchen and sets the bag down on the counter with a heavy _thunk_. Harry immediately recognizes the sound of two liter bottles.

"She's visiting her parents. It's, um. It's not going well."

"Well, that's not exactly news is it?"

"What?"

"I feel like every time I talk to you you're in the dog house with her. Haven't you ever felt it'd be best to separate?"

"We love each other. It's worth working for."

John pulls a bottle of whiskey out and turns to the cabinets. He finds two tall glasses and pours amber liquid up to the rim. He pushes one glass towards her, splashing a bit of the contents. She frowns at him as he sucks his own glass dry.

His exhale comes like a hiss and he says, "Do you remember when we were still in school, what it used to be like?"

"I remember a lot, John."

"Do you remember, was I ever in love?" He's reaching for the bottle and pouring himself another glass. Harry sips at hers like soda. If John weren't here she'd be doing much like he is, but something is holding her back. Light comes in through the kitchen window. The place is clean, quaint. She grabs a napkin to catch the small spill.

"I don't remember if you were ever in love." She tosses the soiled napkin in the bin and looks at her brother directly. "I remember what you were like then, how you used to treat yourself. Your outlook upon life. Why do you want to know about love?"

He finishes his second glass even as he starts his sentence. "Because I want to know, if I had been, I could have something to compare this to. A reference point. But if I haven't been, then here I am. An adult. Experiencing…"

"Experiencing loss."

He nods.

"Surely you lost friends you loved in Afghanistan?"

He shakes his head. "No, Harry. I loved Sherlock. _Loved _him."

Her eyes widen. "I'd completely forgotten that about you." She touches her forehead and takes larger sips.

"You see. It's not… Normal, this. It doesn't sit well."

"John, hardly any time has passed. Are you expecting to feel better overnight?"

"No. No, but I don't want to feel."

"Who does?"

He laughs at this. She laughs along, not sure why. Watches him fill up his third glass. After finishing her first she is not so concerned about his habits. In all honesty, she never has cared much about what John chooses to do with his life. It didn't make much sense that he came to her today, but here he is. Anytime he comes to her, which is rare, she does what she can to seem welcoming.

He echoes her. "Who does."


	5. Chapter 5

Sense of time falls away fast. Over the next few weeks, his work schedule is all that keeps him aware of the day. Every morning when he wakes his body hurts considerably more than when he went to sleep. He checks to see if there are physical marks where he feels pain. Usually there are none, sometimes there are. Increasingly he loses track of his doings the night before. He lives in the moment out of necessity, but maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Diligently he shows up for work. He would love to quit his job and run away somewhere, but something keeps him there. Money, of course. He arrives as sober as possible in the morning and leaves immediately after his shift. Occasionally he and Sarah attempt quality conversation, but it becomes a pointless effort. Aside from his patients and Mrs. Hudson, he doesn't speak with anyone.

He can't stand being in 221B for long periods of time, but there's no chance in hell he'll move away from it. Mostly he stays home, thinks. There's an odd air about the place, different from the air that enveloped the two of them, together. The flat doesn't seem real. Everything is a stage prop, nothing has value at all. Even his clean, pressed clothes are a costume to cover up whatever lies beneath.

This particular afternoon, John finds himself a bottle of whiskey and sets to rummaging through the things Sherlock left behind. So many papers, books, notes upon notes jotted down in haste. It pleases John to look over his handwriting, though the majority of the markings make no sense to him.

He finds a record, some composer he has never heard of, and puts it on. A symphony fills the flat with rich color. Whenever Sherlock would play his own or put on a record like this, John would be filled to the brim with a bittersweet feeling. His head bobs along out of habit, but he is off beat and discoordinant.

John finds himself in Sherlock's bedroom, a place he hasn't ventured since before the fall. Cradling his bottle he falls onto the bed, still rumpled and filled with his scent. Presently he peruses the closet, tries on a few things that could never look right on his small frame, and lets them fall to the floor. The music follows him, fills his headspace with injury and sucks away time. He is absent.

In the top dresser drawer he finds a small wooden box, tucked behind leagues of organized socks. He sits down right where he is standing with it, opens it up on his lap. He finds two packs of cigarettes, two lighters. Without thinking he picks up a pack and undoes the cellophane. He lights and sucks at the cigarette as though it is a natural extension of him. In a way, it is. Before joining the military he was a frequent smoker. What a perfect time to return to it. He feels the warm sensation of the nicotine rush and shuts his eyes for a moment. He reaches for the bottle that he had set down on floor by the closet. He drinks.

There is something about the box that is not right. It seems—ah, yes. The black cardboard bottom isn't a bottom at all. It's just to separate the cigarettes from something else, something more personal that Sherlock didn't want anyone to find. Well, John has found it. Like a greedy child in a sweets shop he yanks the cardboard away and finds underneath several small, sealed baggies. One is filled with white; that's an easy guess. The other is filled with some type of pill, and there's a third that's not a clear baggie, but a wax baggie. He thinks back to the times he was a teenager, the things he saw. Even during his time in Afghanistan, people brought along…

Oh. Heroin.

He blankly stares at the contents, rustles them about with his hands. There is also a half length of straw and a few sterile needles. What? What? This doesn't make any sense. Sherlock had only had a few experiences with drugs. John had no reason _not _to believe his stories. No reason up until now. It is… strange, to find such things in the drawer of a lover who has passed. That sensation of sinking strikes him anew.

The cigarette ash falls onto the floor, some lands on his knee. When it becomes a stub he rolls back his shirt sleeve a bit and puts the cigarette out on his forearm. He notices pain, but it's not enough. Nothing of the sort is ever enough. Well, maybe…

Of course he has tried these things before, more than once. There were a few details about his life that Sherlock did not manage to get hold of. He and Harry are more alike as siblings than either of them likes to admit. The only reason that John headed off to war was because he had royally destroyed his youth. The military was his last chance for salvation, and luckily it worked. He is smart, there's no denying that, and he makes a brilliant doctor. As for handling life outside of that, in many ways he comes up short.

Not conscious of any decision he's sitting on his knees, hunched over a spot on the floor where he's spilled out half the contents of the wax baggie. Wonderful, moist brown powder. The feeling of the straw between his fingers, edging up his nose. The drunken rush of I haven't done this in so long and the desperate plea of Please God let this make me better.

How wrong he is.

He uses something of the box daily. Rationalizes, if Sherlock indulged in these things to help him cope, I can, too. After all, he left everything to me. He left this whole mess for me.

He thinks, I am entitled to my pain. And my solution.

There is no choice but to leave the flat to go to the shops and, while out, to attempt to refill any or all parts of the box. He tells himself he'll run the errands after his shift. Work is a must if he wants to keep the flat and afford his poor habits. He desires both beyond words.

It occurs to him that he could take a few Oxycontins out of the reserve. No one would suspect him, he would wait until later to use them. As soon as he finds a free moment to sneak off, he snags ten 80mg pills. They are round and orange and he wraps them in cellophane from the cigarette pack in his desk. He feels confident, feels an unusual life within.

Before he leaves work he slips one of the Oxys into his mouth, swallows it dry. At least there's something to look forward to. Something to make him less lonely.

He can pretend.

Trying to call a cab after the weight of the drug has hit him is more nauseating than the drug itself. All of the cars passing look the same and he feels he can barely lift his arm to hail; his limbs feel pleasant and weak. He overestimated his tolerance. He wants to set down the bag from the shops, though all it holds is milk and bread. It feels so heavy.

A sleek black car pulls up beside him. The door opens and John has trouble believing who he sees.

"No." He turns to walk away, but stumbles.

"John."

It's Mycroft.

"John, please. It won't take long."

The car takes them straight to 221B. They enter the flat and Mycroft's eyes scan the mess silently. John does not offer him a seat and he makes no motion to take one. As he waits for the brother's criticism, his eyelids flutter. Taken by the drug, he can't feel a thing. Not even shame for being seen in such a state.

Mycroft clears his throat. "You want me to apologize. But I have already done that."

"No. No, you told me to apologize to him, for you. You've said nothing to me since that time, and I'd prefer to keep it that way."

Mycroft's mouth is a constant frown.

"Forgive me. It can be arranged that you and I have no contact after this."

"Yes."

"But right now I need to see you, and to… discuss a few things."

"On, then."

"The past two months have turned you so cold, so distant. He would have you know, he always did appreciate your warmth and patience with him. As soon as you understood that he couldn't read the emotions of others, you treated him how he should treat others. You never judged him, but rather _showed _him."

"Obviously it didn't help."

"What makes you say that?"

"He's left… he's left me. And that's not how I would have liked to be treated."

"Yes. It is unfortunate that it came down to this. I know that you want to blame me for his fall, John. But truthfully, it's much more complicated than you could anticipate. The blame does not lie solely on me."

"Doesn't it? Not only are you his brother, but the bloody British government. You're the reason Moriarty had all that information, and you're the reason that nobody interfered. You _let _this happen. You have allowed _so_ many people unbearable pain."

Mycroft shakes his head. "You're the only one dealing with unbearable pain, John. Everyone else is ordinary enough to believe that what they've read in the papers is the final word."

"You don't feel pain, then? Nothing at all?"

"I am upset at my brother's departure, but I've enough knowledge of his whereabouts to keep me sane, at least for now. For the time being, I'm not worried. Of course, that is subject to change."

John chuckles. "So, what, you believe in God now?"

"Don't mistake me."

He feels angry rather than confused, assumes he is being mocked.

"Are we finished?"

Mycroft sighs. "Yes, I suppose we are."

"It's bad enough living in this state, I don't need you coming around telling me how serene you feel about your brother's death."

"I'd like to tell you the truth, John. I will not withhold it from you. I know what he's put you through."

"Don't. Don't pretend that do. You know nothing of what it was like to be with him and now to be without him. And besides that—besides, I already know the truth."

"Mm, are you so sure? I see that you _are _trying to destroy yourself. If you knew the truth, it would bring you peace, don't you think?"

"Piss off."

Mycroft moves towards the door. John feels a rush of relief.

"Contact me when you want to know the truth."

"I told you, Mycroft. I already know the truth."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock wakes, morning after morning, curled up beside himself.

Feathers float through the air. He is not sure where they came from or how. Maybe the pillow, the blanket. Maybe the boa wrapped around his lover's neck to mimic rope. All of the above. He is on top, pinning him down, hand on his chest. His lover starts to giggle, says, "No, Sherlock. _I _want to be on top!"

So be it.

Change of angles, change of pace. This small body rides him, tight friction around his cock, the weight against his hips. His breath comes heavy, fast. His fists fill with bedclothes, it is too much to handle. He watches his lover work, eyes closed and mouth open as he pumps up and down, forward and back. He is clutching the boa to his neck and chest as though the feathers are Sherlock's fingers. The pressure rises, he lets his head fall back and his own eyes close and finally he feels release.

As soon as he's caught his breath he's pulling the dainty frame to the edge of the bed. Sits him there, kneels on the floor before him and begins to rub his hard on, freshly wet from Sherlock's climax. He looks up and sees eyelids flutter open and shut with pleasure. A hand on the crown of Sherlock's head pushes it down. His mouth around him. It feels right. Different, raw. He works him and works him, hears his moans, feels him go, feels it fill his throat as it goes down, warm.

They lay back against the pillows, in each other's arms. The calm after the storm. Until another one arises.

"You're better than I ever imagined you would be."

Sherlock smiles to himself but says nothing.

"I mean it."

"I know."

"Well?'

"What."

"What do you think of _me_?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Whiney drawl, "Yes, but I need to hear you say it."

"I think you are _extraordinary_, Jim."

"Extraordinary Jim," he says with a laugh. He sits up and straddles the length of beauty he has claimed. Touches his chest gently, over his heart. "Extraordinary Sherlock. I love you." He leans down for a kiss. "But I know you're not ready to hear that."

Morning light falls onto the floor when Sherlock pulls back the drapes and throws open the window. It is one swift motion, it causes dust to rise. Warm summer air that smells of the city comes in. He surveys the scene through crystal clear eyes. Cars move, people walk. These are the sounds of life. The sun warms his naked skin; he has always enjoyed his own stark form.

Jim is cooking breakfast. It is relaxing, being here. In a new place, there is no pressure to be somebody. He finds he enjoys it. There's no telling how long this calm will last. He commits to savor the day.

"Honey, do you feel like coffee this morning?" Jim speaks in a constant drawl.

Sherlock cocks a smile. Still looking out the window, hands folded behind his back, he replies, "One would think you were dying of boredom, the way you say it."

"And maybe I am." He hears a pan slide across a stove, a dial click and footsteps towards him.

"Bring my cigarettes, would you?"

A few footsteps later a hand reaches around and sets a cigarette between Sherlock's lips. Then a lighter appears. He pulls smoke in and shuts his eyes for that first real breath. Jim stands behind him and wraps his robed arms around his waist. His hands graze Sherlock's stomach, ribs.

"You still haven't answered my question…"

He takes another pull off the cigarette, a fine European blend. The warm breeze comes in and tickles him there. Clean.

"Yes, Jim."

"Wonderful!" The footsteps carry back to the kitchen. The truth is that he doesn't like coffee much at all. Never drank it before this chapter in his life began.

There are the sounds of dishes and silverware on wood, the percolating of the brewer. That aroma moves in with the rest. "Will you put on the record for me? You know the one."

Sherlock crosses the room, blows smoke, and sifts through records on a shelf. Debussy, Prelude to 'The Afternoon of a Faun'. He wouldn't have picked this for himself this morning, but he understands. He hears the vibration of plastic on marble and looks around. Atop the mantle he left his phone. He frowns; it must be Mycroft. Yet something compels him. He crosses the room, feels the weight of the phone in his hand.

A foul feeling takes him. The text is from John.

_I'm sorry that I couldn't look after you. That was my one goal, made my life worth living. And I failed to do it._

He reads it ten times over and then erases it. It will stay with him. He sets the phone back on the mantle and takes another pull off the cigarette, which is quickly burning down. Once he has snuffed it in the ashtray he goes to the record player and puts the needle down.

They sit and eat in verbal silence, engulfed by the bounce and pipe of every note. Jim's free hand floats about, involuntary, his eyes close here and there as he follows the trail of pitch. When he opens his eyes Sherlock's are locked onto him. This makes him smile and laugh.

"Somebody's feeling fierce this morning."

"I am."

"And why's that? Nothing's happened yet. We've only just woke up."

They hold eye contact. Jim holds a piece of meat on his fork. After a moment he places it on his tongue and chews slowly. He is leaning on the table, nodding his head.

He raises his eyebrows deliberately. "Ohh. He still has your number."

The vibration of the phone, Jim could hear it from anywhere. He is a bit possessive these days.

"This was the first time."

"But you've been waiting for it, I see."

It's his breath, he knows that. Since he received the text, received and memorized it, his heart has been beating anxiously, making his breathing uneven. He had anticipated it, and upon finally receiving it…

"There won't be a response to it. Forget the concern."

Jim sips from his steaming mug and the record scratches to an end. He stands up to reset the needle, talks as he crosses the apartment. "Interesting, isn't it?" He is wearing Sherlock's blue silk robe. It dances gracefully about his knees. The sleeves are too long for him. "How much time it takes them to get over something as ordinary as death."

Sherlock can't finish his breakfast. He sits naked, leaning into his chair, hands folded across his stomach. "Hm." Wonder consumes him, questions and possibilities rapidly firing off in his mind.

"You _were _his heart I suppose. Must hurt to have it ripped out." Jim returns to his seat, smiles politely and resumes his meal. He motions to Sherlock. "Honey, please. It's all fresh, it's all for you."

Sherlock barely shakes his head.

"I see. He was your heart, too."

He winces. "Don't sound so disappointed."

"Why? Why shouldn't I be disappointed? To think that my one true pairing is still thinking about another man?"

"My mind strays, Jim, yet here I am before you. Day and night."

"That's not enough for me."

"What will be enough?"

His laughter floats like the impressionist composition. It is loving and free. "I'll have to get back to you on that. I just haven't made up my mind."


	7. Chapter 7

Mary.

This new name. This new girl. Not woman, but girl. Fifteen years younger than him. A beautiful blonde distraction, a mess. She's doing graduate work and deals around campus. He often wonders at how she can accomplish all of her tasks while retaining such bad behaviors. Then, he can't wonder. He does much of the same.

They meet when she comes in for an appointment. She is a natural flirt, but John feels singled out and revels in the attention. His disposition is always professional at work, but that breaks as soon as his foot hits the sidewalk. He thinks maybe she can sense that. She slips him her number before she struts out.

He is fucked up enough to call her one afternoon. Blasted on cocaine and generic painkillers. Vodka and stale cigarettes. They've got a date set for the next evening. To go out for drinks after her night class. Promise of something. He plans ahead to bring supplies, though he doesn't know what may be necessary.

Finally he has realized the flat smells like a closet and pries open all the windows. He lights a few incense that he's found in a drawer somewhere and he dances about to an old record he enjoyed as a teen. During fleeting moments like these, the flat feels like his. Only his. Like Sherlock never existed. For just a moment he forgets, doesn't think what Sherlock might say if he walked in to see John like this. Maybe nothing. Maybe he never loved John after all.

She shows up, tousled hair down, half the length of her back. She's got brown eyes, they look sort of vacant but John ignores that and pretends it just shows she is mysterious. Her pants are plaid, a dark red with soft gold and black striping. She wears black boots and a black blazer over a cream colored tee shirt. Tight pants that speak of her youth by the style. He wonders what she looks like underneath.

At their third club of the night she pulls him into the bathroom and shuts them in a stall. From inside her blazer she pulls a compaq case. Looks like a makeup case, but when she opens it there's a bag of white powder and several pills. She's only holding tonight, but not dealing. Taking a night off for him. He laughs, reaches in his pocket for a money bill to roll up. They blow huge lines through this and after a few lines a piece she tucks the case away and reaches for his face. They stand at eye level. People come in and out of the bathroom, they hear the click of heels and the volatile laughter of drunk females. Nothing concerns them but where the other's hands are moving and the heat of their bodies pressed together, mouths, hot breath, neck and tongue and fingertips.

They dance for quite some time before they feel the tug of thirst behind their lips. John takes her by the hand and they reach the bar. He orders them straight double vodkas, a classic in his mind. She laughs, teeth flash, her eyelids done up around the edges with a bit of shadow and glitter. Just a hint. They toast to their night at the bar, completely unaware of the time or date. Not that it matters at this point.

When they set their empty glasses on the bar, John notices somebody standing just a few lengths away in a heavy coat and a hat. Is that a deerstalker? Couldn't be, but it… The collar on the coat turned up. Elegant. A statement. The man turns, face clearly not…

_You machine—sod this. Sod this. _

"No, no."

"John?" Mary's looking wildly about, trying to see what he sees. "I don't—John?"

"No, I don't think I can be here anymore. I'm sorry, I've. I've."

"It's okay." She smiles, but her eyes show anxiety. She doesn't know how to fix the situation, but feels she should. All she can do is accommodate, which she is a near expert at. Her profession is in accommodation, the way she sees it. She likes being in control. "This place will still be here… later. Let's get outside."

Something courses through him that makes him feel ill. Not in a physical way, but mentally. It's as if something inside his mind, his soul snaps. He lets her take his arm and lead him confidently through throngs of maniacal people. She takes in the sight of him with fierce eyes, can't guess what's going on. There's a possibility he's not as experienced in clubbing as he lets on; the marathon of coke and vodka could have an effect on his mood. She thinks, he'll probably just throw up in an alley and then I can get him a cab home. If he's not down for my lifestyle, why should I be down for his?

But he doesn't throw up. The early summer air cools him as he lights a cigarette. She lights one, too, and they stand in silence for a bit.

Finally he says, "I thought I saw—somebody that I used to know."

"Oh. Was it?"

"Couldn't have been."

This sounds simple enough to Mary, but the look on her date's face spells destruction and she doesn't believe him. She cant fight the urge to pry.

"You look upset, though. Who did you think you saw?"

He shakes his head. Looks at her directly, eyebrows raised. "If you really want the answer to that question, we're going to need to go back to the flat. I'm not going to speak of it on the street."

She isn't sure how to respond but she has to know now. She steps out onto the street to hail the first cab she sees. They toss their cigarettes and climb in.

They manage to sneak into 221B quietly. John doesn't really want Mrs. Hudson to know this side of him. The cocaine has worn off a fair amount by now and that irritability settles in, typical of the crash. The vodka tapers it a bit, but after seeing—thinking he saw—what he did, well, he needs more.

So he pulls out the bottle of whiskey and sets it on the kitchen counter. The table is non-useable space. The apartment itself is a storm, clutter. All of Sherlock's things he cant look at, but can't throw away. Mary doesn't care about the mess. The bedroom and bathroom are clean, that's all that matters. She doesn't understand that the flat was John's birthplace and is now his prison. His coffin.

He leads her into his room and pulls the box from the top of his dresser. Sets it on the bed. Shows her the Oxy's and she smiles. They break apart one pill each, make space on a desk and snort.

Mary finds his stereo and puts on a bit of strange acoustic music. He doesn't like it, but doesn't complain. He feels the weight of the Oxy in him like a brick and sips some whiskey but decides he needs to lay in bed and just not move. He ushers her to come with him. They strip down to just underwear and lie together, touching, legs entwined, fingers laced. Neither of them possess any sexual zeal now. It's obvious what's killed his drive tonight, but for her it's the drugs and the comfort of his sad eyes.

"Awhile ago there was a story in the papers. About a man, a genius. He killed himself."

"Oh, the detective?"

"Yeah, the detective."

"What was his name… Sh, sh."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Right! Him… what about him?"

"That's who I thought I saw at the bar tonight."

"That's odd, but—why would that make you upset? Was he onto you for something? Drug crime? I can relate…"

"No."

John falls silent for several minutes. He and Mary hold each others eyes and nod out a bit, alternately, watching each other. Comfortable, mainly false comfort, produced comfort. Not genuine at all. Impossible to have genuine comfort while destroying mind body and heart in such a way. But the sleep will feel real, and good.

"Sherlock Holmes was my best friend."

He cant open his eyes at this point, for all the things inside of him. The narcotics especially, the crash from the coke.

"I never did believe that he was a fake, and I'm not…I'm not okay about what he chose to do, and I… Just when I thought—just when, I thought I'd forgotten about him. Just when."

He feels a choking feeling inside, can't identify it. Ignores it, strokes Mary's hand. She's asleep at this point. He can't tell. Doesn't know and wouldn't care. The illusion is real enough for him.

"Just when I thought, that, well, then I remembered him. Remembered what happened to _us_."

No memories, no images come to his mind. He would be thankful for that if he could realize it.

"It's absolutely horrible."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock wakes to The Moldau. The bed is empty, Jim's side still warm. He can smell coffee and fresh air coming in through the open bedroom door. It's a bit cold. Smetana's composition is beautiful, cascading and vast. He can deduce how Jim is feeling in the morning based on what record he puts on. This record reminds him of something. He turns over on the bed, tries to clear his mind.

Of course he cant.

It was one of the first mornings he woke next to John. His nose pressed up against his neck. The thick, warm smell of him. Sherlocks arms pulling the small frame close to his chest. Gripping him through sleep, a dreamless sleep. John was still asleep. He began to wonder. What life had been like for him. There was so much that he could deduce, but the finer details he couldn't read at all. Especially considering his inability to pick up emotional cues, facial expressions. John told so much through his eyes, the lines around his mouth. Sherlock appreciated, but he rarely understood.

He felt John begin to shake. His body grew hot, his breath came hard. Within a minute or two he woke up with a start. Sherlock called his name calmly. John rolled over so they faced each other. Fingers laced with one hand, the other hand stroked John's hair. The closest to compassion Sherlock would ever reach.

"I resent your nightmares."

The look of fear, of haunt in John's eyes is paramount. Sherlock resents the nightmares because they take John away from him. They take him to a place where he can't be reached for an unpredictable amount of time.

"It's okay." He says it absently.

"No it's not. I wish I could just turn them off. They can't possibly be useful to you."

John is silent for a minute. He watches Sherlock's face. Calms down a bit.

"They are useful to me, in a way."

"How?"

"They remind me."

"Of?"

"Being here, being here with you. Every part of my life, even that, has led me to this."

"Are you saying you ought to be thankful for your nightmares?"

"No. No, I'm saying that I realize how lucky I am to finally be home."

"Home."

"Yes, Sherlock. You. You're my home."

Finally Sherlock gets himself out of bed. He wraps one of the throw blankets about himself and finds Jim in the kitchen. He is making crepes. There are fresh strawberries.

"Ah, good morning! I was beginning to think you'd died in there."

"I prevail."

He walks to his usual spot by the window with the best view. That's the window that's open, crisp fall air blowing in. The scene outside is dim, the sun is hiding at the moment. Bright white light, no gold, blue or green.

On the mantel he finds his cigarettes. He lights one, standing there, and sees his phone. Maybe he hasn't picked it up in days. Mycroft has given up for now. He checks it anyway, and is surprised to see several messages. All from John, different times over the past few days. Weeks? Immaterial.

_It isn't fair that I cant be with you while I am still alive._

_ Death seems inviting now._

_ No._

_ I miss you like the _

_ I'm an idiot._

The last text was sent a week ago. A week of not checking his phone. Where is the time going, exactly? Sherlock reads, memorizes, erases.

Jim is standing by him now, reaching, turning his jaw and coming in for a kiss. He eyes the phone, still in Sherlock's hand, and smiles sadly.

"You should really change your number." He takes the phone out of Sherlock's hand gently and looks it over. "That's the first thing you should have done… I know why you didn't."

"Really?"

"Obvious, Sherlock. For him. But—doesn't he find it _odd _that he's not receiving return messages? Saying, this number is _invalid_? Doesn't he realize?"

"Hm."

"I wonder why he doesn't realize. Maybe he's more average than we thought."

"Jim."

Eyebrows raise, head cocks slightly to the side. "What? Is it insulting? To call an average man average?"

"You're doing this on purpose. It's not funny."

Jim laughs. "Not funny. _You're _funny, Sherlock. You're funny. Cant make up your mind about anything, can you? You're DEAD. You chose me, remember?" He sets the phone on the mantel and resets the record. "Cant go back now." Then he stalks off to the kitchen.

Sherlock pulls off the cigarette, returns to the window. He's consumed by the lust of wonder. The compulsion to know.

Jim calls to him over the sizzle in the pan. "Call Mycroft."

"What?"

"Mycroft. I'm sure he's been keeping an eye on everything." Laughter.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He walks back into the bedroom and shuts the door.

Weeks or more float by. No texts from John. Nothing unusual at all. Just he and Jim, living their strange life.

This morning something compels him. Jim is reading in the chair by the window. Some violin concerto thundering about their flat.

Quickly he puts on clothes; black trousers and a plaid green flannel button up. Both nice items, designer, Jim's pick. After death, purple shirts of sex are out of the question. Sherlock feels odd in these new clothes, but he enjoys the rush of difference.

Jim looks up when he hears the door rip open. Sherlock is on fire, that's clear. Jim knows precisely why. Too long since the last text. Can't accept the possibility John's actually moved on. Jim resents John greatly for ruining what he has. For intruding, even from miles and lives away. Can't he just go away? Jim's certain he'll have to destroy Sherlock's phone before long. Unlike his other half, Jim _does _pick up on emotion; he reads people extremely well. Too well. He might even know John better than Sherlock ever did. He laughs quietly at this thought.

Sherlock grabs his phone and cigarettes from the mantel and says, "I'm going to the shops."

"Oh? What could we possibly need?" Feigned surprise.

"Well, milk. Eggs. You've used up most during your cooking this week."

Jim sighs. "You want privacy. You're finally going to call your brother."

"Yes."

"Alright. Give me a kiss first."

Sherlock walks to him, kisses him without passion. Jim's eyes suck him in like fire.

"Tsk, daddy, try again."

He does. Jim smiles and waves him off.

"Mycroft."

"I thought you'd never ring."

"You knew I would."

"I did. But why such a long wait? Mummy would have been disappointed. She always wanted us to stay close."

"We were never close."

"Closer than you think."

Scoff.

"Excuse the dramatics. I know you were never one for… Although, I suppose you _are_."

"You know why I'm calling."

"No, why?"

"John."

"John, yes. What about him?"

"I know you've been keeping an eye on him. Now is the time when I call for any and every detail. On with it."

"Sherlock. What makes you think I would keep an eye on him?"

"Stop it. On any issue but this, I'm warning you _don't_ play around."

"I'm not playing. I can't keep an eye on him."

"And why not?"

"My dear brother. Doctor John Watson is dead."

There are several minutes of silence. Mycroft can hear Sherlock's swift footsteps on the sidewalk. He can hear cars whooshing past. He knows every thought running through his brother's mind. The truth will be apparent.

Presently, the footsteps stop. His brother snarls. "If I _ever _see you again, Mycroft, I will cut you. Like diamonds."

The line goes dead.

Sherlock enters the flat with violently. A gust of chill air follows him in. It is dark out, he was gone all day. Jim is sitting on the carpet, filing his fingernails. The record on is Dido's Lament. Foolishly ornate. He never listens to opera unless he is in a certain mood. He's wearing thigh high black nylon stockings and a pink robe, silk. His underwear are neon green. Atop his head sits a wiry gold crown. It is the wrong time for him to be in such a headspace.

"I missed you, honey."

Sherlock doesn't respond, but slams the door behind him and throws his coat down. This breaks Jim from his task, and he frowns at Sherlock's empty hands.

"Where are the groceries?"

There is no thought. Sherlock is on top of Jim, pinning him down with his knees. He backhands him, hard, twice.

"What are you—Ah, ah, stop it!"

The crown goes skittering across the room. Jim reaches up and claws at Sherlock's face. He wraps a hand around Jim's throat to hold him there. His teeth grind, he hisses. "Sometimes I resent you _so much._"

Jim struggles, breaks skin on Sherlock's cheek, pushes his chest. He coughs out, "Why!"

Sherlock leans down, crushes his throat. Bellows. "Why do you think? You made me fall for you!" He lifts and manipulates Jim so he's on his stomach.

"No! No, I don't want it to be like this!"

Sherlock grabs him by the hair and bangs his head against the floor. His screams continue as he feels Sherlock push the pink robe up and rip the underwear down. Sherlock undoes his pants quickly as Jim fights against his powerful thighs. That only makes him harder. He leans forward, forces entry. Jim cries out and Sherlock shoves his face down into the carpet. He fucks him, seething and merciless, and goes long after he has come. He stops only when his thrusts begin to lose force.

Standing, he zips himself, fixes his shirt. Jim sits up tenderly. He stares blankly at the lean figure towering over him. There is a patch of raw rug burn on his cheek, mirroring the mark on Sherlock's face. Jim manages to stand after a few moments. The robe hangs loose about his shoulders and his breathing starts to calm. The lament has drawn to a close and there is silence between them. Jim shakes his head slowly and turns, walks to the bathroom. Sherlock hears the shower run.

Silence, yes. Weight of the phone in my hand. Pull of the smoke in my lungs, exhale. The window is open a bit. The sounds of Jim leaving the bathroom and closing the bedroom door. Oh, Jim. Shutting himself in. Not a good night. Domestic problems. A place I never saw myself, problems I never imagined I'd have. Not with Jim. We both wanted this, yes, but nothing's happening according to plan. My plan. Not now. I know why Mycroft lied. Because of reasons. He must make a fool of himself, act concerned. Mycroft wants this all to be over. If I believe that John is dead, I will have no reason to fight or carry this out. If John had actually died, Mycroft would have called immediately. He wouldn't have waited. He knows me well enough. Therefore, John _is_ still alive. However, Mycroft could have come up with any variety of lies. This one in particular, this one was injected with a bit of truth. He wouldn't have said "John Watson is dead" unless his well being really is at stake. The question is how.

What could possibly be wrong with John that would bring Mycroft to that _exact_ lie? I see a list, a list of emotions. Ha, _emotions_. What use are they? Vicious motivators, supposedly. No, I don't understand. What could hurt John? Worry? He's not worrying if he believes I'm dead. Anger, no. His anger surely would have passed by now, it's been months. Sorrow. People speak of heartbreak, but what does that even mean? A heart cant be broken, unless it stops working, but then it just fails. Doesn't break.

Cigarette done. Snuff it out, light another. Rub my face where it is sore. What have I done here? Here in this alternate universe. I cant know what's going on there, and I don't like not knowing. I did not expect my thoughts to go back to him, to what we had. Thought I could flood him out with new stimuli. Have I been lying to myself this whole time? No, no, don't doubt. Doubt is… Doubt, why? I doubt my decision because I am torn. Torn between the man who loves me because he knows me, and the man who loves me because he _is _me.

Is this what feeling feels like?

Past two in the morning, Jim wakes to an awful sound. Like choking. Gasping breath. He rises and opens the bedroom door. Sherlock is in a state of hyperventilation, sitting in the chair, the dead end of a cigarette fitted between two fingers.

"Honey, no." He kneels before his lover, reaches out to caress his hand. "I'm not actually hurt, you didn't hurt me. See? Calm down." He never knew this man was capable of tears. Jim is moved, flattered. He stands up, kisses the crown of Sherlock's head. "Daddy still loves you. Alright? Daddy loves you. Come on."

He helps Sherlock to a stand and brings him into the bedroom, sets him on the bed and strips him to his underclothes. Gently he covers him with the blankets and nestles in beside him, up against him, inhaling his heady scent. He wraps himself around this shaking, pathetic excuse for a genius and strokes his forehead. Sings into his ear. His tears become silent and soon enough he slips off into sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Mary rings him in the morning. A bright morning, nearing the year mark of Sherlock's death.

_I'll call you on break._

"I want to go out tonight."

"Dinner first?"

"We can, yea."

"You don't sound too enthused."

"I want to take you somewhere."

He laughs, "Fine, take me."

She's smiling across the line.

They stop at a café to grab a roll and a coffee each and then she hails them a cab. Neither of them can stomach much because of the piles of cocaine they ingest each day. However, John loves to entertain the idea. He has always been fixed to some traditions. Sit down meals are one of those things.

A cab picks them up. She tosses her schoolbag in first. Her hair is pulled back this evening, a cascading ponytail. She is wearing black and grey checkered pants with thick magenta pumps. Her legs are matchsticks and her hips are inviting. Her shirt is pastel yellow, not fitting for the season. Over it all she's thrown a floral scarf and a blue blazer. She should be cold, judging by the outside air, but she doesn't appear to be.

Their hands, laced, set upon his lap. He sits upright and remains alert as ever. More fun than cab rides with Sherlock, he tells himself. They talk easily about their day, laughing and interrupting each other with kisses.

John has no idea where they are. The sun is setting. She leads him by the hand into a strange building. They take an elevator up many flights and walk out into corporate looking space. Mary greets somebody behind a desk and is ushered to a waiting area. They sit. Within minutes she is called into a private office. John has to wait outside, which is to be expected. He humours himself by trying to deduce where they could possibly be and why.

Presently a man opens the door for her, waves at John, and sees them off.

They are alone in the elevator heading to ground floor. He asks her what that was all about. She gives him a cheeky look and tells him they are going to need to make a few deliveries before she can show him the surprise she has planned.

"It's killing me, I've got to know!"

It's well after dark when they get home. They light cigarettes and set their things down. He goes into his bedroom to grab the box and calculate what's left, what he'll use now, what he'll need more of and when. At this point it's beyond second nature.

She can't stop giggling as she goes to the counter and takes two glasses from the cabinet. She fills them with vodka and goes to the bedroom. "I'm so close to showing you. The wait is almost over!"

They toast to nothing and smoke and talk expectantly. John takes off everything but his boxers and white undershirt. She changes her outfit completely, putting on clean pyjamas she finds in one of the several drawers she has claimed.

Onto the next drink, and he lays out a few lines of heroin for himself. This is how he makes sure he gets at least some rest at night. The best part is he doesn't dream. No more nightmares of Sherlock's blood pooling on the cement.

Laying on her side of the bed she fists through her bag until she pulls out an envelope. She waves it at him and he kneels on the bed before her.

"Open it!"

"What—okay, what could this be?"

As he pulls out the tickets she squeals. "Aren't you so excited! Just the two of us, a real vacation!"

His face lights up. "Wow, Mary. I didn't… Wow."

She looks up at him. "Well? How excited _are _you?"

"Pretty… Um, yea. Pretty excited." He leans down and kisses her, thanks her for her troubles. Though he has no idea what troubles she's gone through. She assures him that everything will be ready for them when they arrive. The hotel, it'll be a five star for sure, the reservations for restaurants and shows.

"And don't worry, I've got connections there. We won't have to worry about bringing anything on the plane or wandering around looking for people. It'll be smooth, just us. Our own little world."

He begins to feel the tug of the dope. Warm, pleasant. It slows him a bit.

"Mary, this is so sweet. Really. I am looking forward to it."

"Oh, you're welcome. You're so wonderful to be with. And after all you've been through? How could I not spoil you."

The tickets read Paris.

Their hotel room is trashed. He lays in bed, watches her walk across the room and yank the drapes apart. Sunlight floods in, blinds them both. She laughs, he cringes. She's been up for a while already, watching tv and smoking cigarettes. Got high immediately upon waking.

His head is throbbing, as it is every morning, and his leg pain recently returned; he lays there rubbing it. He's feeling strangely inconsolable this morning, in this new place. The carpet is cream and the wallpaper is an antique gold, striping. The dark wooden furniture and hunter green duvet give off a regal air. John should feel like a prince right now, but he doesn't.

"Do you want me to order up breakfast, then?"

"What time is it?"

She dances about the room and finds her phone, then laughs. "We slept in!"

"Okay."

At the small table in the corner of their room there is a half brick of coke. It's been broken open, ravaged by hungry noses. Did they have help? Surely they couldn't have used half a brick so far, the two of them. They only just arrived… When did they arrive? He rubs his temples. He is missing something.

This should have been him and Sherlock. Not him and some insane female chic punk prodigy. It should have been John buying the tickets, setting the reservations, making the plans. Treating Sherlock how he deserved to be treated. Not blowing money and drugs and self mutilating when he is blacked out alone in the bathroom after dark. John wonders what he would say. In their time together, he had always resented Sherlock for the exact thing that made him intoxicating—he was untamable. A trip to Paris would have complimented that.

Mary leans over the table, blows lines of the brick. John is broken from his thoughts by the rough sound. She coughs. The pain is so unbearable. He doesn't know what to do. An itch on his upper arm reminds him of the cuts he made there last night. He doesn't remember. Mary doesn't seem to notice what a mess he is. Does it even matter? Does John Watson matter? In many ways he ceased to be a person past Sherlock's death. His life ended when his lover threw himself off the roof.

"I've got a place I want to go today. We can eat, shower and dress and then go walking around. It's just some shops," she gives him a bashful smile, takes off her shirt and underwear and unties her hair. Her nude body is unappealing and frank. "You know how I am about shopping."

"Yea, I do. Have you money for it? If you remember, you are a student…"

"So? This is the best time in my life to have fun, to care less. Soon enough I'll be all glum and bogged down by responsibility." She makes a face at him and ducks into the bathroom. He hears the shower run and sits up, rubs his eyes. As if he's had a spiritual awakening he thinks, I can't do this much longer. I've been avoiding all my responsibilities. Burying my pain with more pain. This isn't fun anymore, it never has been.

God, I wish he could save me.

Paris is just another place. Mary snaps photo after photo on her digital camera. It is beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"John, look!" She drags him by the hand into a shop where she's found something in the window she wants to try on. He isn't sure how he's managing to stand right now. He ate two bars of Xanax he'd brought as part of a private stash, and blew a pile of coke before they left the hotel. For breakfast he passed down a coffee spiked with gin and a small biscuit. He doesn't notice how thin he's gotten.

Several shops later he tells her he needs to take a break. They decide to return to the hotel and refresh. While they are there he sits at the table with a brick and crushes two 80mg Oxys. He takes the majority of the pile of powder, leaving a fair line for Mary. He mixes this powder with a hefty amount of coke and blows it all in one horrific inhale.

He lights a cigarette and considers his life.

Mary fixes her makeup for a half hour and changes her outfit several times.

He tells her that he is going out for a walk. She insists she go with him, which rather annoys him. In fact, at this point he feels disgusted by the very nature of Mary. Everything that brought them so close at the start, that made her so appealing, all of that has washed away like the blonde dye of her hair.

While riding the elevator down she is all over him. He tries to push her away, but she cant take the hint. In her mind she is living out the story she wrote for John and herself. They've been living together for months, a destructive couple, and this long weekend away seals the deal. He is surprised she's not bowing down, offering a ring.

On the street he leads her absently. She hangs about his arm and chatters on about the scenery, repeating various phrases she's learned in French. John cant feel the pain in his leg because of all the drugs, and he doesn't notice that the rhythm of his gait is off. Fog begins to muddy up all his thoughts. The Oxy hits him and he feels the tug of rest, while the cocaine keeps him standing upright.

It seems too bright out for this hour.

"Let's get drinks!" Mary is not making a suggestion. She is waving her free arm at some restaurant ahead. John stops short and lights a cigarette. One for himself and one for her. She smiles at him. He no longer carries any expression on his face.

John drinks like a death wish. He is put in a trance by the voices around him, the murmurs in a language he doesn't understand. Only bits and pieces of. Mary's hands flit about, she lies sloppily on the bar, gets up a few times to use the lavatory. Of course she's doing _something _in there. John could not care less what she does. At this point he is torn between two choices. He can end the relationship, but he fears that wont be enough. That wont fix him. Nothing on this earth can. The other choice becomes the obvious answer. End his life.


	10. Chapter 10

"Sherlock, why? Why wont you just wear what I want you to wear?"

"Because this is absurd, I'm not comfortable."

Jim pouts, but his eyes remain vague. "Let _me_ dress you. I love figuring out what works best on your body."

Sherlock gives him a distasteful side glance and adjusts the collar of his blazer. He observes himself in the mirror, Jim behind him, about a head shorter and dressed to kill. Sherlock is aware that he must pick his battles with Jim. He is not interested in fighting this one.

"What would you like me to try on?"

Jim grins and rushes out of the fitting room. They are in some private tailor's shop. A well-known name. Sherlock could not be any less concerned.

He begins to undress. A year after falling for Jim and he is bored. This isn't fun anymore. When he really presses himself for an answer, he finds that it never was fun. He nearly forgets all the reasons that led him here. In his mind he thinks, I want to go home. In his mind he thinks, when will the right time be? I feel ready, but is it right?

Jim returns to a pale Sherlock standing in briefs, still observing himself. He is excited by the sight, but more excited to see how this particular suit will fit. It is a subdued blue, but not quite navy. Tight in all the right places.

"As usual. Perfect." Jim claps his hands and shakes his head, wide eyed. He begins to pet Sherlock and adjust him. "After this we'll go out to that restaurant I told you about. The beauty is, we won't even have to pay! Isn't it wonderful having international connections? Even _after_ death." He laughs to himself. Sherlock forces a half smile. It is unconvincing.

Jim begins anew, adjusts his own collar. He is wearing the pale grey suit he decided on. Skinny tie and the cuffs tight. Shoes with a shine that could blind someone. The pants break just above the top of the shoe, exactly where they should. Fitting for this small but significant man with the name of Moriarty.

"You know, I've noticed you've been quiet lately. Quieter, ever since that phone conversation with Mycroft." He paces. "I wonder."

Sherlock turns to him. "If you think this is my best look, I'll take it."

Jim sighs. "I wonder if you miss him."

The tailor appears in the doorway to the fitting room, asks them how things are. Jim hands him several large notes and waves him off.

"Of course I miss him. He was my best friend. I don't expect you to understand that, but at any rate you know how much stock people put in sentiment. I have some… sentiment for John."

"It's been so long, though. I did hope you'd be _over _him by now. There's nothing left but you and I. Consulting criminal, consulting detective. The only pair in the world—now the only living dead."

Sherlock, for one surreal moment, is hit by immense pain. The appalling fact that he has allowed so much time to pass without seeing the face and hearing the voice of the only person who has ever moved him. Truly moved him. John is still alive out there, and he has wasted ayear without him.

"Jim, pick your battles." He checks his phone for the time. "We best be off now. Reservations, dear."

They ask to be seated outside, never entering the restaurant, the better for Sherlock's smoking. It is warm and bright and they are on a busy street. Everyone walking by is fashionably dressed and on a mission. Sherlock watches them with jealous eyes.

Jim talks on and on, as if he never had any concern about Sherlock's growing silence. Perhaps he is pretending the silence isn't there, isn't a sign meant for him. It is not strange for Sherlock to slip away, into his mind. What is strange, and what Jim will never realize, is how extroverted Sherlock always was with John. That is the missing link. The spark that ignited Sherlock intoxicated John, and Jim will never provide such a spark.

Their dishes arrive, steaming. Delicious food that Sherlock won't touch even half of. Wasted money, wasted resources. None of it bothers Jim. He will do whatever he can to keep Sherlock. He reaches for the elegant hand across the small square table and holds it, strokes it. Sherlock bears no reaction. It is callous and cold, but not new.

Presently, Jim is in the middle of a sentence about some unremarkable childhood trauma he suffered. He stops speaking, his gaze strays, his mouth hangs open. An exhausted man darts out the open door of the restaurant and heads for the street, followed by a thin, messy girl.

Jim looks at Sherlock, who is staring at him plainly. He is missing the action behind him. "What?"

Mary starts screaming. "JOHN."

Jim starts laughing. "This is _un_believable, Sherlock. It really is."

Sherlock stands up and turns around, just in time to see a black vehicle bring John's body violently down to the pavement.

"For God's sake, let me through! He's my friend."

Jim is bemused for a moment. John is sprawled sideways across the pavement, unconscious. Blood is pooling. The sloppy girl is moaning and screaming. Whatever she was thinking when she picked out that outfit, Jim doesn't know.

3 He cocks his head and shouts at her. "Oh, shut up! Do something useful at least. Call for help."

She stammers, hugs herself. "I don't—I don't know French."

Jim whips out his cell. "Daddy has to do everything around here, doesn't he?" He looks down and watches Sherlock, bent over the limp body, speaking to it in heated breaths. People gather around, the murmur of another language. Cars are confused, dart around the scene.

When he puts his cell back in his pocket, he folds his hands behind his back and waits calmly, like a man at a symphony. Sherlock looks up at him for a brief moment. John is unresponsive, thin and small, but still breathing. Jim doesn't remember him so small. Neither does Sherlock, which only brings him to a state of disquiet.

He stands up, hovering over john. Directed at Jim, he says, "I never expected him to show up this way. I never expected him to show up at all. Why is he here?"

Jim shrugs. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock considers this. "Cant be. Would have happened differently. He was… running purposefully into traffic, you said?"

"It did seem that way."

Mary is sniveling. She comes forward, tries to say something.

"Stay back!" Sherlock snaps this and looks her up and down. Her lack of sleep cannot be covered by makeup; she is only around twenty-five, but there are lines coming in around her mouth and brow. She is a smoker, then, lack of sleep would also suggest drug user. The state of her hair suggests narcotics, but if not sleeping, some type of amphetamine more likely. He observes her outfit. A red scarf tied tight around her neck, a yellow tee shirt with a sea-green vest over it, expensive ripped jeans and purple wedges, an imitation pink alligator skin purse. She thinks she looks good but clearly doesn't. Must be cocaine. He looks at her nose, bits of dried blood, very fine. Definitely, then. Ruining John completely. The state of John Watson indicates that well enough. Sherlock kicks himself. He should have known from the texts. John wasn't depressed, he was falling to rock bottom. So is this his dealer? His partner in crime? No, they wouldn't come to the city of love if they were just friends or just doing business. No. This is his girlfriend.

"Jim."

"Yes, honey?"

"Call the police and tell them we have a lucid addict here who pushed a man into oncoming traffic. Wait—tell them there was a bar fight that had been directed outside, and once outside she pushed him. Intent to kill. Tell them now."

Jim smiles and does as he is asked.

Mary hears this, moves closer to John. Sherlock holds up a hand. "I am warning you."

"Why'd you tell him to call the police! Who are you, anyway?"

"That's none of your concern. You have no business being here, you're well aware of that."

"But, he's my boyfriend. I came here with him! I need to go with him, make sure he's okay."

Jim's eyes are wide with pleasure. "There's no possible way Sherlock is going to let _that_ happen."

"It has to happen, wait, Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

He rolls his eyes.

Jim claps his hands. "This is perfect! When they come to get her she'll start chattering on about some detective that's been dead for a year! Yes, she's convinced we've set her up. Paranoia." He turns to her, shakes his head. "No, they'll never let you go."

"This isn't funny, what are you doing here! I'm his girlfriend, I'm his—"

Sherlock snarls. "You are NOTHING! Not to him, not to me." He checks the time and looks to the body at his feet. "Could these idiots arrive any later."

"Ah, but here they are."


	11. Chapter 11

John is roused by two familiar voices softly engaging in patient argument. It is comfortable. He is unable to open his eyes just yet.

"There's blood all over the knees of the suit, and the shoes! Couldn't you have been more careful about where you were standing?"

A scoff. "I suppose you want me to apologize for being in the heat of the moment?"

"Considering I bought you a designer custom suit mere hours ago and now have to pay for a cleaner, yes, I do."

"So sorry."

"Don't be coy."

"Why don't you just take a cab home and I'll meet you there."

"How do I know when you'll return? I'll be so lonely, waiting up for you."

"Then don't wait up."

"Oh, what an awful attitude. I'm staying, I really am."

"Do you have to choose now to be stubborn?"

"Yes. I do. But you cant blame me. I know this is very important to you, and I want to be here for you."

"Hm. I assumed you'd be bothered by it, which is something I wish to avoid. You are atrocious when you're bothered."

Silence.

"Come on. Don't take it personal, we both know it hasn't been a smooth ride."

"Ha, it's been _some ride_, though, hasn't it?"

"Please go home."

"You cant make me. I'm stay-ing."

The grating of that singsong voice brings John's eyes open. What he sees is Sherlock and Moriarty, in suits and standing plainly. Sherlock turns and sees he is conscious, rushes to his side. Moriarty lingers in the corner, frowning.

"John." Sherlock reaches out to touch him, but he is too fast.

He rips all of his attachments away and leaps off the bed. "Sherlock, behind you—I've got it!"

Moriarty starts screaming as John attacks him, throws him to the floor and beats his head against the wall several times. The sound of his skull smacking the cinderblock is audible, blood begins to splash about. Moriarty struggles and yells. John grunts and flips the Moriarty onto his back, pins him. He punches his eyes and nose until they bleed. He grabs hold of his hair, shouts something inaudible in his ear and then bites him, leaves a round, dripping mark near his mouth. His hands secure around Moriarty's neck and squeeze with vengeance. In moments Moriarty falls completely quiet and ceases to move.

John's breathing is disturbed. When he feels is successful, he lets go and turns around, squatting over the body. "I knew it wasn't over, Sherlock. I just had a feeling. Now you can rest in peace."

There is blood on his face and his hands and he is smiling.


	12. Chapter 12

The black car is not uncomfortable, but it's been a while since John has ridden in a proper vehicle. It feels strange. What makes it more unusual is that Mycroft is seated beside him. Riding back to 221B.

"Is he there right now?"

"What would your guess be?"

He lets out a sigh. "Don't, Mycroft. I really need… You knew I didn't want him there, you knew that."

"And you should know that I did everything I could to keep him at bay. To keep him estranged and distant. At least, physically distant."

"How did you fail to control him this time, then?"

"He had a passionate but admittedly childish fit and refused to be removed. Even brutally injured one of my men in the process."

"Brutally injured? What, has he gone rabid?"

"I wouldn't say rabid, Dr. Watson. But then again I wouldn't know what to say. The Holmes' have never specialized in the ways of human desire."

John scoffs. "Desire. Is that your word or his?"

Mycroft smiles and peers out the window. John feels frustrated. He doesn't understand why Sherlock has to be so disrespectful. After everything he's been through—for Sherlock, at his own expense—he would like a bit of time, in his own flat, to sort through his things and figure out where he wants his life to be. He had no future without Sherlock and now he wonders if he can re-envision one _with _him. Is it possible? Does he still love Sherlock in the same way? At all?

The door of the flat opens before Mycroft or John even reach out for the handle. Sherlock looks manic, as though he hasn't slept in days. Thin, pale and alarming. Eyes like holes of light. Normally when he was in this state John would drop everything and tend to him. It always had something to do with a case that needed to be put to rest. Right now John is the unsolved mystery, the uncontrollable outcome. And John pushes past Sherlock and heads for his bedroom, a place he hasn't seen in almost three months. On his way he notices how put together the place looks. It seems artificial, in a way. To be honest, he doesn't remember what state he left it in. He is thankful it's clean and chokes back embarrassment for what Sherlock may have seen upon entering. There would have been so much information for those holes of light to take in.

When he enters his room he shuts the door behind him and sets his bag down on the bed. Sherlock has erased all traces of Mary. While he puts his clothes away he looks through the closet and drawers. There are no forgotten garments or even stray blonde hairs. Sherlock was extremely thorough. John solemnly realizes that he was serious about bringing things back to exactly where they were before Moriarty, before the fall. Maybe the whole thing really was, somehow, to protect him. But then, how could he be so important to such a vivid man?

The small mirror mounted on his wall bears minimal dust. He looks at his reflection, looks around at his room, back at himself. Still looks the same, he thinks. Same as before I went under. Funny, that. Barely anything has changed at all. What's changed is how I see him. Mycroft is right, of course. My commitment to Sherlock hasn't changed. I am just… so afraid. To go back to that place, to be vulnerable. To let myself be swept away by him a second time. Danger. But, God, hasn't danger always felt right.

After some time to himself, hearing the soft murmur of voices outside, John hears silence. More than hears. He feels the silence, and it brings him to stand up and open the door.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair.

Sherlock. Tapping his fingers and toes. He sees John and becomes motionless, as if awaiting a sentence. A wave of relief comes over John and he realizes his gratitude for this man. Alive. Waiting upon him.

He crosses the room and climbs onto Sherlock, straddles him, takes his face in his hands and kisses him with full abandon. Sherlock responds immediately and without pause. He shifts John's weight against him and stands up, carries him into the bedroom, lays him gently on the bed. Swiftly he yanks John's pants down about his feet and throws them on the floor. Then he stands and undresses his own lower half quickly, takes his turn to climb on top of his lover. He wants John to know his importance and his worth. Sherlock wants to pleasure him until he falls apart and never let him go.

They fuck until they come to conclusion. All of the things that John was so afraid of losing, he never lost at all. What did I do to deserve this?, he thinks. All of this terror and beauty.


End file.
